The next day, Vera met Howard Chitters at the police station. The little mouse was laden with large account books.
“Orville,” he squeaked, “I have some evidence you need to see.” After a long-winded recitation of all his meticulous research, he showed the accounts to Orville. All those lines of numbers meant absolutely nothing to the bear.
“Just tell me what you discovered, Chitters,” he growled impatiently.
Vera gave the mouse an encouraging nudge.
Howard looked a little nervous, but he took a deep breath and soldiered on. “Mr. von Beaverpelt was paying some creature monthly from the sawmill account and trying to cover it up.”
“Who?” asked the bear.
“Well, it’s right here,” Howard insisted.
Orville peered at the page where Howard’s paw was pointing. “So who the heck is B. S.?”
Howard exhaled noisily. “I don’t know, but it’s a clue. I thought the police could figure out the rest.”
Orville looked over the mouse’s head in confusion. “Well, all right. I’ll put it in my report,” the bear said doubtfully. He took a moment to scratch down Howard’s explanation in his ledger, which took longer than it might have because he had to ask a lot of questions to clarify exactly how the books were wrong.
Vera could practically read the bear’s thoughts as he worked: How can this little mouse understand all these numbers?
Orville finished the report with a sigh of relief. “There. That’s done. Since I have you here, Chitters, can you tell me if there have been any break-ins at the sawmill lately? Or if any suspicious characters have been seen lurking about?”
“What makes a character suspicious?” Howard asked, puzzled.
“ ‘Skulking, lurking, stalking, casing the joint, possessing a raccoon-like shape’…the usual.” In fact, Orville was reciting verbatim from the Big Book of Policing.
“No, I can’t say I saw Lefty at the sawmill recently.” Howard was not an assertive creature, in general. But neither was he a fool. “And no one has reported a break-in or a theft.”
“I see.” Orville was obviously disappointed.
“So much for easy evidence of Lefty’s guilt,” Vera noted. “I’m still not convinced he had anything to do with the murders.”
“You have your theories, fox. I have mine.”
A knock sounded on the doors of the station, and a woodchuck stepped through. It was one of the carpenters from the mill, which was still mostly closed.
“Excuse me for interrupting, Deputy. Mr. Chitters, I went by your home, and your wife said you were here at the station. Mrs. von B is asking for you.”
“Really?” Howard looked surprised. “Me in particular?”
“She needs some assistance with the sawmill operations, I gather.”
“Oh, dear. Please excuse me.” Howard gathered up the account books.
Vera understood his concern. Edith von Beaverpelt was technically his boss now, and she was not a patient creature.
“May I join you?” she asked. “I happen to have a few questions for Edith.”
“Chitters, wait outside for a moment,” Orville said. “I need to talk to Miss Vixen.”
Howard followed the woodchuck out of the station.
Vera turned to Orville. “Don’t you dare tell me I can’t talk to Mrs. von Beaverpelt. I’m a reporter, and I have a right to—”
“Shush up, fox.” Orville held up a paw. “I was just going to tell you to be careful.”
“Really?”
“Well, if the sheep is correct about her theory and Edith is a murderer—not that I think it’s likely—she might do something violent if you ask the wrong questions. You’re smart, Miss Vixen, but you’re also pushy. Push a murderer too hard and you might get pushed back. Or worse.”
She looked at Orville in surprise. Was the bear actually concerned about her? Or did he really think the danger was so great? Then she remembered the boulder tumbling down the hill and knew he was right.
“I’ll be careful,” she promised. “The most dangerous thing I’ll face at the von Beaverpelt mansion is the protests from tracking mud on those shiny oak floors.”
“Good luck,” Orville said. “You’ll need it.”
Vera stepped outside to find Howard waiting alone. “I’m to go directly to the mansion,” he said. “Edith hasn’t been to the sawmill yet.”
So the creatures headed up to the von Beaverpelt mansion rather than the mill.
Edith was pacing in the study when they arrived.
“Oh, thank goodness!” she said when Chitters walked in, paws full of books. “I have so many questions.” She saw Vera then and looked less pleased. “What can I do for you, Miss Vixen?”
“I just wanted to ask a few questions in preparation for my article on your husband’s illustrious life. But, please, talk with Howard first. I’ll sit here quite patiently.”
And she did, finding an unobtrusive corner where she could still hear every word.
Edith seemed to forget about her within a few seconds. “Mr. Chitters,” she began. “I am concerned.”
“About what, ma’am?” he asked, sitting on a taller stool after depositing the account books on a nearby table. The height of the stool just brought him to eye level with the larger creature.
“We must reopen the mill as soon as possible. My husband would have expected nothing less.” Edith paused to dab her eyes with a tissue. She was still wearing widow’s weeds, of course.
“Very good, ma’am. Go ahead and open it.” It was no secret that Howard was looking forward to returning to work. He loved his family, but life in the Chitters home was not exactly quiet.
“But I don’t know how!” Edith confessed. “Reggie never talked with me about the business. What if I do everything wrong? We’ll go broke if the sawmill fails. I’ll go broke.” She burst into sobs at that point, stuffing her snout into the tissue.
Howard looked quite terrified at the emotional display.
“Just…open it. Send word to the employees that work shall resume tomorrow and notify the suppliers to resume shipments. You’ll need to verify that the barges can accommodate our products. They may have taken on other shipments, not knowing how long we’d be closed. Of course, if you want to make up for lost hours, you could offer bonus pay for workers who take an extra shift…” Howard paused, seeing Edith’s eyes grow big and round as she heard all the instructions.
“How does one go about all that?”
Howard’s little pink nose twitched once, in a nervous way. “Well…um…that is. Do you want me to take care of it?”
“Yes,” Edith gasped. “Please. I couldn’t possibly cope with it all.”
Howard gave a quick little bow. “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll start things off, and you just come down to the mill when you’re ready to take over.”
He picked up the books and hurried out of the mansion, glad to have a task again.
Edith turned her attention to Vera, who remained seated. “Well, Miss Vixen? What questions do you have about my husband’s ‘illustrious life’?”
Vera flipped to a fresh page in her notebook. “Just a few points of clarification, ma’am. The record is unclear about Mr. von Beaverpelt’s origins. Where did you two meet?”
Though Vera kept her tone casual, Edith didn’t relax.
“I don’t remember.”
“How about a story from your courtship? Something to let readers know how you two fell in love.”
“I don’t remember,” Edith repeated.
“Your wedding day, then,” Vera probed. “No lady forgets her wedding day. Did your family attend?”
“Of course they attended! They paid for it, didn’t they?” Edith snapped.
“How generous of them. Your gown must have cost a small fortune by itself. I saw the portrait of you wearing it. You know, the one hanging near the fireplace.”
“I loved that gown.” Edith’s voice softened momentarily as she was drawn back into memory. “It was my mother’s, and she wanted me to wear it. All those little freshwater pearls at the hem. I thought they were so pretty…”
“I’m sure your mother was delighted to see you in it. Tell me about the wedding. It must have been quite the affair!”
“Affair,” Edith echoed. Her expression hardened. “I don’t think I will, Miss Vixen. I’m not particularly keen on sharing all the family affairs with the press.”
Vera could have kicked herself for her clumsy choice of words. “Well,” she hedged, “I’m not asking you to tell any secrets.”
“You’d better not, fox. I’m not pleased when others pry into my business.” The widow leaned forward, her eyes narrow. “Those who tangle with me soon regret it. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Vera knew when to end an interview. “I’ll see myself out.”
“See that you do.”
Vera exited as quickly as possible. So Edith von Beaverpelt had a streak of command as strong as her late husband’s. Maybe she’d been the one to teach him how to deliver a threat. Maybe she’d lost her patience when Reginald got ideas of his own.
In any case, Vera wouldn’t get any more information from Edith. But she did seem like a prime suspect.